Holy Shit, I'm Graduating

In May of 2016, I will graduate from Iowa State University with a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology, a certificate in Leadership Studies, minoring in Women and Gender Studies. It's been a busy few years!

And I'm petrified.

I'm 35 years old and I'm about to graduate with my first degree in higher education. I will be entering the job market against thousands of young, marketable blank slates that have very little work experience (i.e., fewer bad habits from previous employers to work with), better understanding of technology, fewer familial obligations (as they don't likely have a husband and two school-aged children) and a higher GPA (because they didn't have those "pesky" distractions to keep them away from school work). We're all going to be competing for the same jobs. It's easier for employers to hire a new grads for less money if they're a fresh-faced 22 year old! And I'll have just as much debt as they will, possibly more since some (but certainly not most) of these kids received help from their families to pay for college.

There's this common misconception that my university peers (i.e., mostly millenials) are lazy, unmotivated, narcissistic and entitled. But are they, really? Or are we Gen X-ers starting to sound like our parents and grandparents? Here are some of the things I heard when I was a young 20-something:

"Kids these days just don't want to work."
"Kids these days only care about themselves."
"Kids these days are so entitled."
"Kids these days don't know the meaning of hard work. They just want everything now."
"Kids these days have no taste in good music!" (okay, I just added that one in for fun!)

Get off my damn lawn with that riff raff!

Sound familiar? It's the same thing that people are saying about millenials. The truth is, the young adults of this upcoming generation are really anything but lazy. As of now, they are this century's Depression Era children. Many watched their parents lose their jobs and homes. They watched their parents recover from financial disasters. They internalized all of this and have adjusted their world view to accommodate these realities.

You've all heard the phrase, "work smarter, not harder." This is essentially how millenials get their shit done. Can they accomplish it quickly, effectively and accurately? Yes? Awesome. Does that mean they have more time to enjoy life? Probably. Apparently, millenials have figured out that work-life balance thing... at least, once they've found that job that pays well and no longer have to work more than one.

My hope is that being middle-aged and getting a degree will be considered as brave. My hope is that being middle-aged and getting a degree demonstrates my commitment to better myself and my willingness to adapt to new environments. My hope is that being a wife and mother and full-time student will prove my capabilities in managing busy and conflicting situations. My hope is that being middle-aged will prove me to be a leader amongst the tabula rasas.

My Fat Body

Yeah. Another post about body positivity, weight issues, and a more in-depth look at my story. The narrative will jump around, so bear with me here.

This narrative starts with yesterday. Everyday Feminism posted a Justin Dennis video where he talks about fat shaming. This is an important video for a couple of reasons. 

The first reason is because Justin Dennis is a thin human being. Ally voices are so important. No, I don't need a thin person to advocate for me. If you know me, you know I'm really outspoken. Still. Just like the LGBTQ+ community benefits from straight allies and white allies are important in conversations about race, thin allies are important for people of size because it is support. 

The second reason this video is important is because it addresses my biggest issue regarding those who oppose the body positive movement:  "concern." This often comes in the guise of, "I don't hate fat people, I'm just concerned about their health." Bitch. No you are NOT. People who use this sentence are just looking to make themselves feel better about their hatred of fat people. It's like when people say, "love the sinner, hate the sin." 

Your shit is out, and it stinks.

I took the time to share my story on Justin Dennis' video. In true "Lisa Fashion," I also chose to reply to someone who was clearly fat-shaming in the comments. Today, I was greeted by a reply that said:  "who are you trying to convince? If you eat as many calories as you say you do an actual exercise you wouldn't be overweight. It's calories in calories out. The laws of thermodynamics apply to everyone. If for some reason they don't apply to you than you should contact NASA." There are a lot of reasons why this comment was horrendous, but that's irrelevant. I instructed this hateful troll lovely human to return to the first grade and brush up on their reading comprehension skills, because clearly they missed the point on my story.

Why this person needs reading comprehension:

I've been trying to lose weight for about five years. I'm the first to admit that I wasn't a robot about it, but swimming laps and a healthy-ish diet were part of my overall routine. Weight was really resistant to come off. I had small successes and victories, but nothing that continued for very long. I would add and change up my workouts, then the weight would come back on. I would get discouraged after several months and quit. This was the cycle for five years, folks. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't gotten so discouraged, but I can't dwell on that.

I've always been considered "overweight." Even when I was a kid. I got very mixed messages about food, and developed BED after abusive experiences. The biggest contributor to my weight, though, has been hormonal. I wouldn't lose anything. I have had two c-sections and have been on various birth controls. I was almost at the point of considering weight loss surgery, but insurance and gynecological problems got in the way. I ended up having a uterine hysterectomy in May.

Which brings me to the rest of today. Today has been FANTASTIC!

I went to see one of my doctors. I stood on the scale and I'm down 19 pounds since my last visit in her office. NINE.TEEN.POUNDS. My last visit was a week or two before my hysterectomy.

After that appointment, I was pretty pumped. I worked out like a beast at the gym. Dancing in-between sets.

Then, I stopped at Target for prescriptions. While they're being filled, I tried on some clothes for the hell of it. The workout shirt I tried on was from the REGULAR section. AND I tried on a pair of jeans that were a size smaller than the previous pair I purchased there. WITH NO MUFFIN TOP.

I got weepy. I want to wear a sign that says:

19 pounds and one pants size down since I evicted my hateful uterus."

This wasn't just a personal victory. Don't get me wrong, it IS a huge victory in my life and my physical and emotional well-being. It's also a victory against haters. Against the "concerned" fat-shamers. Against the trolls in the world who have nothing good in their life so they sit around and hate on other people. Against every. fucking. doctor. who prescribed "weight loss" instead of seeing my weight as a symptom, not the disease. Against the self-help books that tell me "overcoming BED is about self-control and distraction." Against the mental illness that told me this day would never come.

This isn't just a victory against people. It's a victory FOR people. 

For YOU. Yes, you. The one who, like me, has tried everything under the sun to try and lose weight and nothing worked. This is a victory for those of you who have been ignored and shamed. For all the people who hate eating out because you know that if you order healthy, people will judge you. And if you order crappy food, you know that people will judge you. For the people who have had someone comment on their grocery cart items. For the people who looked at you when you walked on a plane and thought, "yeah right," and you had to ask a flight attendant in a low voice for a seat belt extender.  

This is also for MY people. My tribe. For people who LOVED me at my absolute highest weight of 341 pounds (from which I have lost 34 pounds total) and will love me when this journey is done. For the people who have seen me sweat and work without results, then dried my tears. For those of you listened and chose to be understanding. For those who found me attractive and sexy, no matter what. WE GOT THIS. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart. 

Radical Body Love

A few weeks ago I posted a fitness motivation video filled with women of various ages, sizes, skin colors and abilities. It was beautiful. These women were swimming, dancing, spinning, playing team sports, running...

I went to a wedding last night and danced my butt off. Drenched in sweat, I had a blast. More than likely, there were people there who probably didn't know I could move my body like that. I'm almost certain that there were people there that didn't think I should move my body like that. Somehow, my size means that I am not entitled to fun. My body is supposed to be this huge source of shame for me. Something I am supposed to hide.

I refuse to hide. I hid before and my depression spiraled. I hid before and I was a binge eater. I don't hide. I wasn't made for the shadows.

My body is not disgusting. No, the skin isn't firm and smooth. Yes, I have rolls in places. Yet my body is amazing. My body allows me to dance and walk and run and play and swim. If you think that my squishy, dimpled skin is disgusting, DON'T LOOK AT ME. What's more than that, you don't get to tell me what I call myself. If I want to call myself fat, curvy, lard ass, thick, chubby, or sexy as fuck, you don't get to tell me I'm wrong.

Now, for everyone else that isn't a hateful troll, I want you to imagine how different this world could look if we stopped hiding. If we stopped telling people of size that they are gross and shame them into hiding, how many more people would feel confident enough to be more active and take more initiative in their lives to be healthy. What has shaming people into weight loss ever done? All it has done is create a multi-billion dollar industry that we've all bought into. An industry that is not designed for people to succeed and shames us for not succeeding, then sells us more stuff that won't work in the long term.

Instead, let's fuel a movement of radical love. Not the trite support that comes with condescending "encouragement." Instead, a movement of radical love that does not focus on what our bodies look like, but what our bodies do. Where someone's size is not the litmus test for how you feel about them. This radical body love does not just allow large people to feel like they have a place in society. It allows small people to feel like they're not the source of envy and hate. It acknowledges that we all have more to us than what size is on our pants tag, or the number on the scale.

This type of self love gives us the freedom to be in society and take part in the activities we've always wanted to do, but were told we don't belong in. I'm starting with dance. Where will you start?

13 things about sharing the world with other people

1. You don't have to be against cops to say #blacklivesmatter. You can actually respect the work of police officers while seeing that race is still an issue. 

2. If you're white, you can say white people are racist without actually being a racist. Recognizing racism does not make you racist. It means you can make observations. 

3. Just because someone is a criminal, does not mean they deserve to die for it. Especially if their crime was minor theft, minor drug charges, or resisting arrest. 

4. You don't have to police everyone's political correctness to call yourself a feminist. Everyone is at risk of being "offended." No one is perfect. We're all just trying to make it through this life as best we can. 

5. You can love men, realize that men are also damaged by the patriarchy, and are subjected to double standards AND still call yourself a feminist. No, really. It's that whole "equal and equitable" thing. 

6. You can be pro-life AND pro-choice. One is about wanting children to have healthy and love-filled lives. The other is about minding your own fucking business. 

7. Getting reimbursed for the preservation and transportation of fetal tissue is not "selling baby parts." At least not any more so than hospitals get reimbursed for organ donations or cadaver donations. 

8. You don't actually have to bake anyone a damn cake. You DO have to obey the law and not discriminate. 

9. LIKEWISE, no one has to bake you a cake and you don't have to sue everyone who says they disagree with your marriage. However, if you file a complaint on the basis of discrimination and your family life is disrupted and you risk losing an adoption case because bigots can't be professional business owners, you should absolutely mop the floor with them in court. Just realize that they'll raise donations for what they owe and bigots will help bigots succeed. 

10. Celebrating size diversity in our society and allowing people of size to feel like they're valued is NOT promoting obesity. One is about loving yourself/others. The other is a medical condition that is either a result of a combination of issues or a symptom of something else. Stop pretending you care about the"health" of obese people. You don't. You just hate fat people for the sheer fact that they're fat. If you cared about their health, you'd do more than tell them they're fat. Believe me, they're aware of it. 

11. Fat doesn't mean unhealthy the way skinny doesn't mean healthy. If you aren't that person's doctor, you don't know anything about their health. Kindly fuck off. 

12. You don't have to put someone else down to lift yourself up. If you have to say that people are less for you to be more, then you didn't really earn the accomplishment. 

13. You don't have to put yourself down to lift someone else up. No one likes to feel guilty that they accomplished something. 

There are probably more, but this was the best way for me to summarize a whole slew of feelings. 

Finding the untold stories

This was surprisingly hard to write. I don't understand why my journey of trying to learn about my heritage left me speechless (so to speak), but I have written and re-written this post several times. 

I am a first generation Cuban-American in my family. My father is American, with a European lineage of Scottish, English and Norwegian that I can trace back to the 1500s in some branches. My mother was born in La Habana, Cuba. I knew my grandparents. I knew my maternal great-grandmother. I even knew some great aunts and uncles, along with my mother's siblings, a few second and third cousins. Time, distance, and death makes talking to them really hard.

Left to right:  Brian, cousin; Guadalupe, g. gma;
Chris (baby), cousin; Me. Don't I look thrilled?

I grew up with my Cuban family, but I never really thought a lot about my heritage. The culture and the customs that I loved, without any idea why they were so important. I remember hearing names like Jose Martí, or seeing images of Hatuey on cans of malta and having no idea. I really didn't know where I came from at all. (It's like not knowing who Martin Luther King or Sacajawea were. I know!)

When I was 15, I moved in with my dad and stepmom. They lived in a suburb north of Atlanta. Suddenly, everyone, mostly, looked like me. For the first time, I was not la gringa. My peaches and cream complexion and blue eyes did not stand out in a sea of olive and café con leche skin tones. I was just me. It's not like I wrote off my history, but I continued in my comfort zone of not thinking about my heritage. Teenagers are notoriously self-centered. I did not break that mold. 

About two years ago, I was taking a Western Civ class that covered the 17th century through current events (well, as current as the latest publication of the book). As one of the required assignments, we were assigned a paper to cover something that happened after the French Revolution. We had just covered a section on slavery, and I decided to talk about Cuba. I really didn't know anything much about the War of Independence, so I began to research it. 

This was the first time I sought out any kind of historical information on my country. While I knew that Cuba had been the center of slavery for the Americas, I did not grasp what that meant for me, personally. It wasn't until about this time last year, while reading Nobody Passes, that it hit me. 

1. I have black relatives. My great grandfather was black. 
2. I have relatives that were slaves. 

It was a bit of a mind fuck for me. I'm certain that this experience is not unique to me, especially since there are millions of Cubans who are in America learning about slavery. (Well, in the states that still teach it, but I digress.) Still, it was the first time that I felt how disconnected I was from my heritage. I really never considered what being Cuban was prior to the Revolution. 

It dawned on me that I was privileged to be able to pass. I started thinking about the "one drop" rule in America, and that if it still held today, I would be considered black. I don't consider myself black, so you can save the Rachel Dolezal jokes for someone else.

What does this mean, really? In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean anything. It means, like many Americans, that I have an ancestry that is unique and confusing and contradictory. Nothing has changed for me, socially. I'm still privileged and marginalized in all the same ways I was before. 

On a personal level, I still have conflicting feelings about how I pass through society unmarked by my ethnicity. I still feel like a fraud when I tell people I'm Cuban. More-so now than before because my conversational Spanish is clumsy and out of practice. 

Me and my mother, Marta. 1984

I mentioned that I knew how far back my father's family goes; but there is a whole half of my history that I don't really know. The details are very hard to find. Access to records from Cuba are not so easy to come by. I have started reading more about the history of the country. I've started emailing with a journalist in Cuba who may or may not be a distant relative. I've learned a few things here and there. What I'm learning most, however, is that the cliché is very true:  You never know what you have until it's gone. When I was young, I never asked the questions. Now there's no one left to ask. So, I'll leave you with the pictures of some of the beautiful women I loved. These women I wish I could talk to. These women that I miss.

My grandmother, Carmelina "Mima" Dudot
holding me as a baby.

My grandmother rocking
 a stunning frock

My great-aunt Georgina (grandmother's sister).
She was my favorite. So kind and elegant.

My great grandmother Guadalupe in red
Her sister Ofelia in white.